In Key West, tradition mandates that islanders and visitors gather on Mallory Pier to watch what is touted as America's finest sunset. What began as an innocent excuse for a kiss and a drink has evolved into one of this nation's finest freak shows. Swords are swallowed, twenty-two dollar bills handed out as a gimmick in a man named Love's presidential campaign, and (semi)domesticated pets leap through hoops. But Hanneman, known onstage as Tim Eric, is a consistent attention grabber. As Bob, a sixtysomething executive from Boston said while watching Hanneman, "I've seen a lot of sunsets, but I've never seen anything like this."

Far out Tim left his home in Indiana at the age of fifteen and became an Arthur Murray dance instructor in Los Angeles. Although he liked the dancing, he felt that some of what was required of a dance instructor was a "little unethical," so he began to work in a wax museum scaring people. "At first I wasn't so good," he admits, "because my eyes would drift, and people would touch me and realize that my body was warm." Not only did Hanneman learn to keep his eyes steady, he mastered a biofeedback technique that enabled him to lower his body temperature to that of, essentially, a corpse. He became such a sensation that the fire marshall requested that he take his act to the sidewalk where the crowds could gather without impairing fire egress routes.

During this time, Hanneman had a roommate named Bernie Orlando, and Bernie was an escape artist. "I started out in a straight jacket with fewer chains," Hanneman recalls, "and Bernie put me in a nylon bag." Unfortunately, Bernie never gave Tim any advice other than escape artistry is something you have to figure out on your own.

"I was in there for five and a half hours," he says.

Hanneman worked diligently at his escapes, incorporating them into his sidewalk show. "I was doing pantomime comedy at that time," says Hanneman, "and everybody was always expecting me to be funny. So I started my act with an escape so I could show the audience another, more serious side of me."

Eleven years ago, Hanneman moved to Key West for the warm weather. After three failed marriages ("It's an occupational hazard," he says) and the birth of his "like seven or something" kids, Hanneman began performing on Mallory Pier. His brother Don performs a bit further down the pier. Don holds the world fire blast record. He can blow fire eight and a half feet. It takes him 4.1 seconds to blow the fuel out of his body. Their eldest brother, Charles Hanneman, is running for state senate in Indiana. "When we were little we used to play cowboys and Indians and tie each other up," remembers Don, "and Tim always used to get right out."

Showtime
Hanneman stands in his tights on a bucket and shouts "It's showtime" at approximately 6:20 every night.
He tests his audience with an applause meter to make sure the show will be worth his while.
If the audience passes the test, the show goes on.
After getting two volunteers from the audience,
he instructs them in the rules of tying his straight jacket,
and of chaining him:
"Be careful of my crotch. Snug but not tight."
He requires that his chainers be able to fit at least a pinkie between the chain and his body.
The chains are then locked using padlocks.
Hanneman thinks that women give him more of a challenge.
"Women try to make up for their lack of strength by getting really into it," he says.

Shannon, a college student from Ohio who volunteered to chain Hanneman up, certainly fits this description.
"The tighter it got around his neck, the more I started to think twice," she said,
"but it became more of a challenge to make it as restrictive as I possibly could.
" As Shannon chained him up she showed signs of remorse,
"Oh Jeez! He's got a serious wedgie!"
Tied up Once chained, Hanneman's skin turns from tanned to blue to indigo to gray.
"It's from lack of oxygen," he explains.
The heavy smoker then goes on to complete the rules he establishes for his audience,
pausing intermittently to walk, chained, to the end of the pier for a coughing and spitting attack.
He requests that no one call the emergency squad, as has happened in the past.
"I hate tying up the emergency equipment," says Hanneman,
who claims that he's never been scared while performing an escape.
Hanneman's brother Don also feels that the act is a bit dangerous.
"He's going to die doing it,
" says Don of his 51-year-old brother.
"And I'm going to take his collection hat from that night and buy him an urn,
throw his ashes right off the pier."
Recently, his companion, Georgia McGlauhon, lost her cool.
"The people chaining him up were evil," she explains.
"They were real evil." McGlauhon called the Key West police,
who then proceeded to take her away.
"They wanted me to leave the island, to escort me out of town," she says.
McGlauhon has become much more accustomed to the act since then,
and will even use a napkin to wipe the spit from Hanneman's mouth as he performs the escapes.
Usually the audience is more agreeable, however. Hanneman explains that he sometimes watches videos of his audience after the fact.
"The audience members will be all contorting while they're watching me and I can learn a lot from that,
" he says. Also, both Tim and Don like to watch the other brother's act and offer pointers.
"It's like the days when we were mimes," he says.
For the most part, Hanneman loves his job.
He earns an average of about $130 dollars a show.
The worst part about it is the competition on the dock.
"Lots of people are copying me," he says,
"but they're using tricks." During a showdown with one such mimic last summer,
Hanneman claims that he remains the only one on the pier able to
successfully extricate himself from the straight jacket alone.
"I think the audience can see that I'm the real thing,
" he says, "and they appreciate that.
But this is America, and we've got freedom of speech and I guess that means freedom to lie."